


you haven't seen bad luck until you've seen the other guy's mark

by contsansine (yujael)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 08:31:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2422013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yujael/pseuds/contsansine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dude - dude, holy shit - your mark-"</p><p>"Yes. I know, Tucker. It’s very funny. Can we move on now?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	you haven't seen bad luck until you've seen the other guy's mark

**Author's Note:**

> Cross posted from my tumblr, because for some reason I haven't done it yet.

Lavernius wakes up and notices the mark almost immediately after sitting up. It’s on his hip and blends in a little with the dark skin around it. Anyone else might think it’s just a blemish from a distance. But blemishes usually aren’t shaped exactly like cats and even if they were, what are the chances that they’d appear at just the right angle so as to look like they’re perched right on the person’s hip bone?

It’s his soul mate’s mark and it’s a fucking cat. He sits back in bed and thinks about it for a few minutes. He doesn’t  _hate_  cats, but he also thinks that life is a whole lot easier without them. He shrugs and thinks, well if it’s a hot chick, what’s the problem? Maybe they like cats. A lot.

*

Years later, while he fights a stupid war in a canyon in the middle of fucking nowhere, he thinks about the likelihood of finding a cat and possibly using it to lure his soul mate into existence, because he doesn’t give a  _fuck_ about whether or not they’re incredibly hot, he just wants to talk to someone  _other_ than the other idiots around him.

No such luck.  

Later, he gets the feeling that his mark is a permanent source of bad luck more than a tell.

*

David wakes up and doesn’t see his mark until he stumbles into his washroom and catches a glance of himself in the mirror. The words are very obvious on his chest and his first thought is,  _some motherfucker put marker on him_. He gets in the shower immediately and scrubs, but the only thing he manages to accomplish is turning his skin red and raw. It’s not a prank.

 _My dick just died. Would you mind if I buried it in your ass?_ is not coming off. His mark is a bad pickup line and he spends the next long while convinced that he’s cursed.

*

Years later, when Washington finally decides that there isn’t any point in trying to hide the words scrawled across his chest, he lets Agent York see them. Word spreads like wildfire and he has to suffer through York’s even worse pickup lines. He’d be offended if he didn’t already know Agent Carolina’s mark reacted to York’s touch and vice versa. Sometimes Washington even uses it as an excuse to have terrible lines at the ready in a conversation.

And in the span of less than a year, not only does Washington come to terms with the fact that his soul mate probably has a very different personality than him, but also the fact that he has a very small chance, if any at all, of being able to go back to find them.

———

Tucker hasn’t actively been keeping track or anything, but the amount of time Washington spends out of armour might be something like five minutes for every three days he spends in it.

(And okay, maybe he has been keeping track, but come on. This guy’s a new face and Tucker just wants to make sure he isn’t gonna do anything shady.)

So yeah, that’s why Tucker’s surprised when he gets back into Blue Base half an hour after Washington told him to go check around for the reds and sees both Caboose and Washington sitting on the floor with no amour on whatsoever. He is surprised and annoyed.

"Seriously?" he asks, pulling off his helmet as he approaches them. They are right in the middle of the floor and between them are several pieces of paper and what might be all of the pens in Valhalla. "I come back and you’re doing - what, the hell is that?"

"It is a kitten," Caboose answers. "I told Church that today is nap day, but before we nap we are going to draw pictures. He likes cats so I am drawing cats."

Tucker stares at the drawing and then at Washington, who has the distinct look of someone who wants to be rescued but won’t actually say the words, “Help me.” Tucker snorts.

"You’re supposed to tell him no," he says to Washington, then to Caboose, "And his name’s not actually Church, remember?"

"Oh, right," Caboose says offhandedly. 

"It’s fine," Washington says. His features get slightly more expressive as Tucker starts walking away. 

"Have fun with that," Tucker says over his shoulder, knowing Washington won’t actually stop him until he can get away from Caboose (which won’t be for a while, considering Caboose’s usual mood whenever he declares nap days). "I’m going back to bed."

*

He likes cats, Tucker thinks when he gets out of his armour and sees the little black one staring back. How nice.

*

The next time he sees Washington out of armour, it’s the middle of the night and Caboose is wandering around the base looking for “Washingtub”, and for the sake of his ability to sleep through the rest of the night peacefully, Tucker throws on a pair of pants, orders Caboose back to bed and goes to find Washington himself.

He’s outside, sitting next to the river in a pair of pants and a tee, both marked with the symbol of Project Freelancer. As far as Tucker can tell, he’s just watching the water flow. 

"Hell if I know why," Tucker says as he stops a few feet behind Washington, "but Caboose is looking for you."

"Is it serious?" Washington asks, not turning around. He tenses, though, moves his arms as though he’s about to get up.

Tucker shrugs. “Meh, not really.”

Wasington relaxes. “I’ll be in a few minutes, then.”

"Right…" Tucker glances around. "What are you out here for?"

"I needed some air." Washington looks over his shoulder. Tucker doesn’t miss the long glance at the cat sitting on his hip.

"Yep," he waves at it, "my mark’s a cat. Fucking adorable, right? Sometimes I look at it and think it if had turned up red or something, I would be slightly luckier than I am."

Washington tilts his head, brow furrowed slightly. He looks genuinely concerned. “Are they…?”

"Dead?" Tucker shrugs again. "Not as far as I know."

"You haven’t been looking?"

"Dude, when would I have had the time?" Well, it’s not like he’s actually doing much right now in this canyon, but still. He doesn’t exactly have a way to get out. "Never mind. I don’t see it, but you have a mark, right? What about yours, have  _you_ been looking?” _  
_

Washington faces the river again. He doesn’t reply.

"Alright," Tucker clicks his tongue. "Touchy subject, okay. Well then, I’ll just leave you with your air. Try to get in before Caboose gets out of bed again."

"I will," Washington assures him after he’s turned back for the base.

*

In bed, Tucker can’t help but feel a little sorry. Agent Washington’s life really, really fucking sucks.

*

Washington goes back to hiding in his armour all day every day when Carolina shows up. Tucker initially finds himself thinking it’s because he brought up his dead soul mate.

But then he overhears a conversation between the two Freelancers. Or the end of it, at least, because all he really catches is Carolina’s stressed voice:

"Don’t try to lecture me,  _Wash_ , about my dead mark when  _your_ soul mate is still alive somewhere.”

Washington says something, something along the lines of “That’s not what I was trying to say,” but Tucker doesn’t hear it properly. He’s too busy jumping out of the way as Carolina stalks into view. He rounds the corner and finds Washington staring at the sky, apparently exhaling the longest sigh known to man.

"So wait, your soul mate’s  _not_ dead?”

Washington turns on his heel. “I never said they were dead.”

"You never said they were alive."

"It wasn’t y… I wasn’t exactly sure, then."

"What, you’re sure now?" A part of Tucker is glad for that. Maybe Agent Washington’s life doesn’t suck as much. It still sucks, but it could be better, at least.

"Pretty sure," Wash says, a little sarcastic. "I mean, I’ve seen some… weird things in the past while and I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure they’re alive."

"Well… cool. Good for you. Welcome to the fucking club, then, because the only people who’ve actually met theirs are the fucking reds. Now you can start praying that your soul mate likes cats."

"What, like yours?"

"Yeah. Whatever makes you happy. I’m not sharing, though."

Wash stares at him for a long time. Then he cranes his neck back again and says, “Heh, I guess I’ve been in worse clubs.”

It sounds kind of like he’s smiling. Tucker doesn’t mind the image.

Two seconds later, Carolina calls for them and their mad hunt for the Director continues.

*

This is the worst plan ever, Wash said. But he’s still with them. Tucker’s glad for that, glad that Wash is finally understanding that being a Freelancer and being on Blue Team involves a pretty fucking big compromise - and by that he means he’s glad that Washington has finally decided that being reckless is about as good as any of them can do and if he intends to survive with them, he’s gonna have to follow their example.

Maybe now, once the Director is gone for good, Wash will actually get it in him to go find out if his mark’s match is seriously alive.

And Tucker thinks, maybe he will, too.

*

They’re going home.  _Home_. Tucker seriously isn’t even sure if he knows where that is right now, but they’re going to it.

(He thinks about Blood Gulch. He thinks about freckles. He thinks about cats.)

They’ve been on the ship and in space and on the way home for almost an hour when someone knocks on the door to the bunk that Tucker declared his. Tucker pulls on his pants and answers it reluctantly - he’s so, so tired - and in the hall outside is Wash. 

"I wanna sleep," Tucker whines before Wash can say anything. 

Wash shuffles his feet and asks, “Then I won’t be long. I just want to talk for a minute. If that’s okay.”

"Talk for a minute" is looking like a bit more than that, Tucker thinks. But he lets Wash in anyway.

"Talk about what?"

Wash isn’t in armour, he notices belatedly. 

"What are you going to do when you get home?" Wash asks. "Are you going to look for the match to that mark?"

Tucker scratches the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Maybe. Are you?”

Wash shrugs a bit. “My mark’s kind of… well, I don’t think it’ll be hard to find its match.”

"What is it?"

Wash’s face is one of expertly hidden embarrassment. Tucker’s very interested now.

"You think it’s dumb, don’t you?" Tucker asks, a grin making its way over his face.

"I think it’s the dumbest thing in the goddamn universe," Wash replies. He’s smiling a bit, too. His eyelashes brush the freckles on his cheeks when he looks down at his fingers. They’re curling around the hem of his shirt. He sighs quietly and pulls the fabric over his head.

Tucker sees his mark on his chest almost immediately. For the three seconds it takes to read the words across his pale skin, his mind is blank. It takes another three seconds for the words to register completely. 

_My dick just died. Would you mind if I buried it in your ass?_

Wash closes his eyes and gestures blindly at his mark as Tucker’s laughter bursts out loudly. 

"Dude - dude, holy shit - your mark-" He can’t fucking breathe, Wash’s mark really is-

"Yes. I know, Tucker. It’s very funny. Can we move on now?"

"That’s your mark!" Tucker gasps. He stumbles back and sits down on his bed, trying to get his breath back. "I can’t believe your mark is - is - that sounds like something - holy shit."

"I could be wrong," Wash says. The hand still holding his shirt is gripping it very tight. "I’ve been wrong about a lot of things. I know that. I could be wrong but… You know, I wasn’t really kidding when I said it wouldn’t be hard to find the match to this mark. And now that we have some actual  _time_ , I’d like to try something. If - that’s okay with you?”

He stands close to Tucker, one hand held halfway between them, ready to drop when Tucker says no. Which Tucker doesn’t do. 

He reads the words again and then leans back on his hands. “I hear you like cats,” he says, “but if you don’t, I’ve got something else you could pet instead.”

Wash’s next exhale sounds like a combination between a small groan and a laugh. But he reaches anyway, carefully. His fingers brush the mark like he actually intends to pet it, and the next thing Tucker knows his hip is warm and covered in goose bumps at the same time. His hand moves on impulse and presses back on Wash’s chest, fingers splayed over his mark, and all that accomplishes is forcing Wash to move his hand to the bed to support himself when he almost falls forward. 

"I, uh," Tucker pauses and breathes, "I could be wrong, but that felt like a reaction to me."

Wash nods. 

"You knew, didn’t you?"

Wash nods again. “I could have been wrong.”

"Stop fucking saying that."

"I’ve always thought my mark sounded like something you would say. I never really thought about it anymore until I saw yours." Wash moves slowly, up and over and then down next to Tucker on the bed. "And then after that, I didn’t really think we had the time to discuss it. I’m sorry."

"Why? We were on a hunt for the guy that fucked up all our lives, we were kind of busy. And besides. I wasn’t really thinking too much about it."

"You weren’t?"

"Nah, man, I was… God, Caboose is a fucking idiot and so are Church and the Red Team and so are you, sometimes, but I was okay with what I had. I was good."

"And now?" 

"And now we’re going home and I’ve just found out that I don’t have to go anywhere or go out of my way to find the match to this fucking cat." Tucker pokes the cats and grins at Wash. "I’m good."

He wants to ask if Wash is good, too, because he’s still gripping that shirt like iron and he might be just barely holding something back.

Wash closes his eyes and leans back a little. “Home sounds… really good.”

He smiles again. It’s the kind of smile that someone has when they really like what they’re thinking about, and Tucker wishes he knew what it was. What’s home to Wash?

Then Wash leans over, rests his forehead on Tucker’s shoulder. Tucker feels his breath and the tickle of his hair on his arm. “I really like the sound of that.”

And Tucker doesn’t know exactly what Wash is picturing, but he has the feeling it’s something pretty damn similar to what he has in his mind. He kind of likes the sound of it, too.

He’s not going to call them lucky - not by a fucking long shot - but maybe their lives don’t actually completely suck.

(Maybe.)


End file.
